A Kook at the Bar
by SilverRope
Summary: Lara Croft makes a guest appearance in this tale situated in a bar on the far side of imagination.


  
Before you continue to read, a preliminary explanation is necessary.  
  
Prologue  
On the far edge of imagination rests a pub where fictional characters gather and share stories over a glass of their favorite beverage. The bartender of this establishment may change his appearance from day to day but most of the time he resembles a certain roguish archaeologist with a fedora stylishly cocked over his scalp. His demeanor brings comfort to the patrons. They are amazed he knows what drinks they prefer before requesting it from him. What they also like about the bar is that payment for their drinks is a story for the rest of the clientele. Refills are plentiful thereafter. Although guns, knives, swords, and weapons of mass destruction may be brought inside, for some reason they are ineffective to harm anyone within the pub. Guns may be pointed, knives may be drawn, and swords unsheathed, but the patrons are invulnerable to their effects. Though rare, fistfights may break out, but the participates will not leave impaired or bruised. Overall, the customers are comfortable and at ease to know such a place for relaxation exists for them. A slight caveat to their enjoyment, important information that can be used outside the boundaries of this establishment cannot be shared within.  
  
These are the guidelines writers must follow before submitting their stories to a particular section at a certain Tomb Raider website for fan fiction. As long as the author stays within the limitations of the above guidelines, their characters, or a particular character the author is a fan of, may enter and tell their tales to the clientele. The tales themselves could encompass all genres and are without limit.  
  
This story was written about the most implausible character to visit this bar and wreck havoc to the guidelines.  
  
  
A KOOK AT THE BAR  
  
"So what was the strangest story you ever heard?" questioned the gentleman in the tuxedo.  
  
The man behind the bar raised his fedora above his forehead, scratched, and looked at the ceiling. "That is still under debate, and an answer won't come quickly to mind because there are so many." He paused. "But let me tell you this story of the strangest person ever to disgrace this bar." A finger pointed to a discolored spot on the ceiling. "Because of that, I will never be able to forget him. He left a stain up there that cannot be removed. Don't know what it is! Even after two coats of paint, it still shows!"  
  
The gentleman sat on a barstool and looked up at the spot. "How did he do that?"  
  
"His head blew up!" The fedora was lifted for emphasis. "Like a sputtering volcano!"  
  
"What?"  
  
The bartender spat, "I am not kidding! This was the rudest, crudest, most debasing kook that ever walked in here!"   
  
A couple of others gathered around. An attractive woman muttered, "Sounds like you are about to tell a story."  
  
With arms braced against the bar, his eyes exhibited a look of despair. "Yeah, the bartender will be telling a story." A hand pulled the string on the bell near the wall. As it clanged, he bellowed, "Belly up to the bar, ladies and gentlemen, and get your drinks. Storytime from the bartender."  
  
The patrons huddled close and grabbed their beverages. An old man assisted in giving out drinks at the opposite end.  
  
The bartender turned to the old man and said, "Hey, Dad, see if the two in coveralls at the corner table want refills." He surveyed the group before him. "Alright, everyone, listen up. This is a story of one really strange person I hope never to see again..."  
  
***  
  
Thursdays, Fridays, and Saturdays are my busiest times around here. It gets pretty packed, and the atmosphere is loose, free, and relaxed. Unless it is somebody's birthday, there are no special themes planned for those days. On the other days we do. Like Sunday, for instance, it is 'Lick Your Wounds and Drown Your Sorrows' Day, designed especially for villains, megalomaniacs, and malcontents. For Monday, it would be 'Freaks and Other Life Forms' Day. Tuesdays are different because we alternate the format with an open microphone for new comedians and poetry recitals. The first Tuesday would be called 'This Is Funny?' Day, and the following Tuesday is named 'Poetry - Try Not To Think About It' Day. The goofiest people come during the poetry readings, no offense to anybody here who participates. Wednesday is 'Short Story' Day, and it was on that day, this strange guy entered.  
  
The place was packed, wall to wall, with Munchkins, Ewoks, and Lilliputians. It was hard to move around from table to table without stepping on someone's toes. While listening to one of the little stories of a customer at the bar, my eye caught someone standing at the doorway.   
  
A regular size guy, but, boy, his attitude appeared like the world owed him something. His features were... well, how can I describe it... as if he was the offspring of the Joker and David Letterman, but with a toothier grin. Corn could have been eaten through a picket fence with the chompers he displayed. Some kind of zebra suit hung on his body, but appeared unwashed or dragged through gravel. And smoke lingered off his clothes... as if standing too close to an explosion.   
  
As soon as he walked forward, everybody else stopped and gravitated away from him. Instant repulsion! Even if he had come on 'Freaky' Monday, everyone would have still been repulsed. I would bet that if he visited another bar on another planet, like Tatooine, and went where all the worst denizens congregate, the reaction would be the same. Fortunate for him, a small parting path of Lilliputians led to a barstool.  
  
I froze, swallowed hard, and approached. I wish I hadn't. Normally, the kind of drink everyone prefers can be set before him or her immediately, without a second guess. But when I faced this guy, nothing came to mind.  
  
"What's your poison, stranger?" I asked.  
  
He belched, and replied, "Let me see, let me see. What's my poison? Hmmm... how about hemlock... no, no, no... forget that... how about strychnine, huh? Got any of that? No, wait, wait... how about some tri-chloro-benzyl-toluene? Yeah! What do you say, what do you say, huh? Hold it, hold it... no, wait. Don't want to be predictable. So... let's go with methanol. Yeah, methanol will do! Got any back there, Bud? Can't get enough of that volatile stuff, know what I mean?"  
  
My voice almost choked from what he was asking. "We... we don't serve that stuff here."  
  
"Oh, man! Are you sure, Bud? I could really use a double of that. Damn! Well... I suppose it will be a glass of formaldehyde, then. Know what the commercials say, 'preserves the body good', and this body needs a lot of preserving."  
  
Up close, he had the smell of burning tires. His white face was blotchy, and dark circles were around the eyes. Small white fuzz was in and around his ears, similar to what is found growing on a strawberry after leaving it in the refrigerator for six months. His greenish yellow teeth seemed to be the same color as his hair.  
  
A look of pain crossed my face before I responded, "Listen, friend, we don't serve stuff like that here."  
  
"So what are those small sprites having, huh?" He pointed to the crowd. "Let me have whatever they're having. Okay, Bud?"  
  
"No, listen, friend. They all have different tastes and different drinks." When I viewed the rest of the clientele, they were all compressed against the farthest wall. Nobody was within twenty feet of us. "Let me explain it in simpler terms. See these bottles behind me? These are what I serve as drinks. Now which bottle would you like a drink from?"  
  
His neck stretched and strained as he looked about the counter. "One drink is what you said, right?" A blackened fingernail pulled on his lower lip.   
  
"Well, if you want a mixed drink, tell me how to make it."  
  
He pointed to the first shelf. "Well, let's try that yellow bottle."  
  
My head turned towards the bottle, and then I looked back at him. "That's furniture polish. It's used for cleaning the wood in this place."  
  
"Great!" he exclaimed. "Put it on the rocks!"  
  
Normally my better judgment would have resisted, but for him, I took a tumbler, dropped two ice cubes, and poured. After the glass was set before him, I peeked over my shoulder to the reluctant group.  
  
They still kept their distance.  
  
The empty glass banged on the bar, and he burped. "Ahhh! Smmmooooooth!" His wrist wiped the excess on his lips. A pocket purse was pulled out, and he asked, "Okay, Bud, how much do I owe ya?" Squeaks and squeals came out of the purse as soon as it was opened.  
  
"Your money is not good here," I stated.  
  
"Hey! I can pay for my way, Bud! So what do you want? Dollars, rubles, pounds, francs, drachmas, denarii, deutschemarks, doubloons, yen? Tell me... Oh, I see! Maybe you don't want cold hard currency! Alright, Bud, I know what you want. The mighty plastic!" He reached into his jacket and dealt out credit cards like playing cards. "Gold, silver, platinum, uranium? Got 'em all. What color do you like? Go ahead, pick a card, any card."  
  
"Let me explain it if nobody has told you. Payment for the drink is by you telling a story."  
  
He paused. It looked like his eyeballs rolled inside his head. "So... if I want another drink, I have to tell another story?"  
  
"No." My answer came after a great hesitation. "You would get a refill while listening to others tell their stories."  
  
His eyes grew large. "Swwweeeeeet!" He pulled on his jacket. "So, let me get this straight. I tell a story, then listen to their stories," he pointed to the cringing crowd, "and get refills."  
  
"Generally, that is how it works." I looked at the rest of the room.  
  
They still kept their distance.  
  
"Okay, here we go!" he shouted. "Here's my story. There once was a woman from   
Nantucket, who walked through Main Street with a bucket--"  
  
My hands raised up. "Hey, hey, hey! That's not a story, and I won't allow anything like that here." I must have shocked him because he apologized profusely.  
  
"Hey, Bud, I'm sorry! I didn't know, you know? I didn't know you were a sensitive guy. To think I was going to hurt your feelings. I'm crushed! Please, ya gotta forgive me! I thought we were connecting... becoming buddies, amigos. You know, share our thoughts, share recipes, swap wives. I didn't mean anything by it!" He pulled out a stained handkerchief, wiped his eyes, and blew his nose. The handkerchief dropped to the floor and bounced a couple of feet, emitting a squishy sound with every bounce. Then it sprouted feet and scrambled under the tables.   
  
"Give me another chance, Bud," he continued. "What sort of story do you want? Tell me."  
  
My hand touched the front of his jacket and opened. "Well, start by telling me how you got that gaping hole in your chest." The furniture polish he drank flowed out of the hole, trickled down his shirt, and dripped onto the floor. "Your clothes are a mess!"  
  
He quipped, "Don't worry about that. I've got twelve of these suits hanging in my closet. And this hole? Well... got it from my last job in England, in the heat of the battle. Couldn't meet my boss's deadline, so I got burnt."  
  
My face twisted in horror. "Mister, who do you work for?"  
  
"Work for anyone who will hire me." He reached into another pocket. "Here's my card. Know anyone interested?"  
  
The card had an oily film so I read it off the bar counter. "'Bet-el-geese', 'Bee-tel-gee-use'..."  
  
"It's pronounced 'Beetlejuice'. Say my name three times in the air, and I'll be there," he grinned.  
  
"'Specialist in the Exorcism of the Living - No Refunds'. What does that mean?"  
  
"For nonentities who've got beings that are cramping their style. If they are inexperienced or too high browed to expel the beings, that's when they call me! I do the expelling in whatever creative fashion this noggin can generate." A hand rapped the side of his head like a tambourine. "Like my last job, some pretty upper-class British ghosts thought it was beneath them to scare away the present residents. Didn't want their fingers to touch the chains and rattle them, and wouldn't screech above a whisper." A wide grin appeared on his face. "That's where I come in. Don't mind doing the dirty work! Hey, that's what I'm about, Bud. Doing the dirty work. So... when I arrived at this place... man, it was huge! It was a castle! I said to myself, 'Self, if you do a great job here, ya gotta ask if they will adopt you. Man, this is sweet, this is huge! This is a place you could retire!'"  
  
Meanwhile, I looked over to the crowd of short people, and said, "He is telling a story. Doesn't anybody want to listen?... Anybody?... Please?"  
  
They nervously shook their little heads.  
  
"Don't worry about them, Bud. This story is way over their heads. So... there I was, sizing up the job. Three male and three female beings, consisting of two adults, two kids, and two servants. Pretty much an aristocratic group making a home for themselves. And the British ghosts resorted to these tactics to scare them: moving small objects like goblets and candlesticks across the table; blowing a cold wind down their backs; and fluttering draperies and curtains when no breeze was around. The beings thought the castle had 'a bit of charm' from all of the British ghosts' actions. Nothing seemed to frighten them... until I arrived." He cracked his knuckles. "Started in the middle of the night. Cranked up the stereo and played 'Halloween Hits', with all its screaming, screeching, moaning, and chains rattling, as background music. Spilled slime on the stairs and banisters, you know, for that cascade effect beings do whenever they tumble down the steps. Moved all the furniture everywhere and anywhere... well, eventually all the furniture wound up in the kitchen... but the results were great! I had those beings shivering in their sheets and peeing in their pants.  
"Next step was to trash a room. My hosts, the British ghosts, permitted the sitting room 'to be set as an example'... I think that's what they said. Anyway, no one told me which room was which, so I trashed every room that had a chair or a place to sit down. Didn't realize there were so many places to sit in a castle... Those beings were going crazy! But... somehow they stuck around. I had them on the ropes! It was just... man, the knockout punch to send them screaming through the front door didn't come. Even the cheap thrills of waiting until they were in the shower and turning the water brown wouldn't do it. Neither poking, pinching, nor squeezing the females, and chasing them in their birthday suits through the hallways did it. Or filling the tub and sinks with ooze to overflowing levels. They had dug their heels in and wouldn't shake loose.  
"Frustrated, I let a few days pass to contemplate my next move. It was during that time a van came and parked in front. My first instinct was the beings called for help, you know, a 'psychic medium'. The kind that tries to 'communicate with the dead', and 'convince the deceased to crossover'... What sort of crap is that? We are having a grand old time here, and they want us to miss all this fun? But when I saw the size of the van, my thoughts were, 'Looks big enough to carry equipment. Maybe it's college students with their instruments to measure paranormal activity.' Whatever gadgets they brought, I knew one of them had to be a camera. So I said to myself, 'Self, you need a new set of 8x10's for those casting calls, so you better go pretty yourself up and be ready.' Took a quick sponge bath, combed out the old hairdo, and checked to see that nothing was stuck between my teeth. Waited a few minutes upstairs to be sure they were all set up before making a grand entrance down the staircase."  
  
He paused and picked his teeth with an edge of a credit card. My stomach knotted up, but my feet wouldn't move. I turned towards the cowering clientele and tried to convey a look of a helpless puppy behind a glass pane.  
  
The cowards refused to come near.  
  
He continued, "So I came down the staircase as posh and demure as possible. Before touching the bottom, this dude, equipped from head to toe, stepped out from around a corner. He had a headset with expanded binocular lenses a foot long over his eyes. On his back was something that looked like a portable vacuum cleaner, and he held the hose attachment like a rifle.  
"Before I could say, 'What's up, Dude?', a yellow-orange beam slammed into my chest and knocked me for a loop! He fired a couple more shots, but I hopped away in the nick of time. Then a second guy, dressed the same way, showed up! And both of them shot at me! They had me jumping like a mouse in a snakepit! After a few near misses, I scrambled to get out of the castle! That's when they blasted me here!" A scorch mark was displayed, which burned off the seat of his pants and exposed his boxers with Spiderman emblems. "My poor tushy." He gently sat on the barstool.  
  
Not wanting to ask him anything else, I said, "Well... that fulfills the requirement. You can now listen to the others tell their stories."  
  
"Really?" He grinned, rubbed his hands, and eyed the pressed mass of short people like a banquet table. Without warning, he dived into the crowd. The whole scene reminded me of a child landing into a pool of plastic colored balls, flinging and tossing in excitement.  
  
The crowd scattered to the exits. By the time I came around the bar to where he stood, he held a Munchkin by the ankles, shook the little guy upside down as if there was a story in a pocket, and shouted, "Com'on, you wax headed half-pint! Give it up!"  
  
I yelled, "Hey! Hey! Hey! That's not how you do it! You're supposed to let them tell their stories willingly, not by force! Drop the Munchkin!"  
  
Most of the minute crowd dispersed. Those that stayed were hidden under the tables, rattling them with fear.  
  
"Listen, friend, this group is not for you. Maybe you can get a better reception from the crowd that is here on Friday or Saturday. They are regular size, and you won't stick out..." I looked at his zebra suit, "... that much."  
  
His eyes glowed. "Yeah? Man, okay! Thanks, Bud! I'll see ya on Saturday!" He skipped to the door and exited.  
  
If it weren't for the shaking tables, one would have said the bar was empty. I felt like Glenda the Good Witch of the North, coaxing the tiny people from their hiding places. "Okay, all of you can come out now. The Wicked Weirdo of the West has gone."  
  
Not the next Saturday, but the following one, he appeared again. Dressed in a red velvet smoking jacket, he entered as suave as possible, and strode up to the bar.  
  
A woman next to him sniffed, tilted away, and asked, "What is that cologne you're wearing?"  
  
"Eau de Vulcanized Rubber," he responded. "By Pirelli. Do you like it, Babe?"  
  
"Phew!" Her head whipped away, and she vacated the barstool.  
  
I placed his 'usual' drink in front and said, "Now you know how it works. The first drink requires a story for payment. Then, as friendly as you can, mingle with the others, listen to their stories, and you will get your refills."  
  
He took the glass and started, "Before my present gig, I use to be in electronics sales."  
  
My head turned about to see if anyone wanted to hear. Only one guy, who measured up to his shoulder, stood nearby. Nobody else came within ten feet.  
  
"Yeah, those were the good days," he continued. "I'd hustle for a sale anywhere. Did a lot of traveling, too. Most of my work was on the road, you know. Getting face to face with the customer. There was one time I rushed to an appointment in my car when a tire blew out. My cellular phone was not charged, and a payphone no where in sight. Looking up and down the street I noticed the car had stopped behind the court area of an insane asylum. A high chain-linked fence separated the courtyard from the sidewalk. Frustrated, I took off my jacket, rolled up the sleeves, and started to change the flat. While working on the tire, some of the residents of the asylum gathered behind the fence and watched. I didn't look at them and tried not to notice. When the spare tire was finally in place, my hand reached for the lugnuts but they were gone! In a panic, I looked around and saw a small stream of water in the gutter leading to a drainage grating. Inside the grating, the lugnuts rested at the bottom and were too far away for me to grab. I went ballistic! I cried that my appointment was going to be missed and I would loose a big sale. My fists pounded the pavement until they hurt. Slumping on the sidewalk, I buried my head in my hands and moaned. Then a voice behind the fence said, 'Hey, mister. Why don't you take a lugnut from each of the other wheels to put on the spare 'til you reach a service station?' A light blinked in my head. 'What a great idea!' So taking a lugnut from each wheel, the spare tire was fastened on. After dropping the tools in the trunk and slipping on my jacket, I said to the resident who helped, 'Thanks, man. You know, that was very smart thinking and it showed intelligence. But I gotta ask ya, how come you're in that place?' The resident replied, 'I'm in here because I'm crazy, not because I'm stupid.' I stepped close to the fence and shouted, 'Who are you calling stupid, you lunatic!' He yelled, 'You, clown-boy! Want to make something of it?' I responded, 'Yeah! How about if I stick my oversized shoe down your throat? How would you like that?' He waved his fingers and beckoned, 'If you feel froggy, come on over and jump!' That's when I reached through the links, grabbed him by the throat, and yanked him towards the fence... You know, at certain velocities, if a person strikes a chain-linked fence that it can produce the same results as hitting a wire frame of razor blades. Did you know that? Well... when I got him on the other side, he was cut up in pieces and looked like a pile of sirloin tips ready to be shish kebobbed! An empty box was grabbed from out of the trunk. The meat pieces were scooped up and dumped inside the box. I tossed it over the fence and shouted to the other residents, 'Here's a new puzzle for you guys to put together! Don't fight over it!' Then I zipped out of there to my appointment."  
  
"Yech! That was terrible!" said the guy standing close by. "That didn't even sound real!"  
  
"That's my story, and I'm sticking with it," he replied and drank. "And besides, why are you so close to my elbow?"  
  
"You're standing on my foot!" the guy retorted.  
  
"Oh... sorry." He stepped back, and the guy limped away.  
  
"Okay. You've given your 'story'," I said in a sarcastic tone. "Now go about the room and listen to the others. I'll be around with refills."  
  
"Great!" he exclaimed and darted to the nearest table.  
  
Let me say when I watched him seated at the table, he became gregarious... very, very gregarious... offensively gregarious. He called everybody 'buddy', 'babe', or 'dude', except for the Lone Ranger. He called him a 'dork', and Tonto 'stupid'. And if the people at the table ignored him, he would muscle his way in and tried to get their attention with an inane joke. Most of the time their reactions were 'yech' or 'eeewwwwww'.   
  
After that didn't get a good reception, he scooted from one table to another, and to another. Three different tables, listening to three different stories at the same time! And he wanted three refills!  
  
I stopped him between tables and said, "What you're doing is absurd! Stick to one table and listen!"  
  
He objected, "Hey, Bud, they are all good stories! I want to hear them all! Besides, aren't you supposed to be getting my drinks? Where are they?"  
  
A desperate sigh escaped from my mouth and my shoulders dropped. I headed for the bar.  
  
At that moment, Lara Croft, one of my favorite patrons, entered. She was outfitted in her usual attire, and strode by with purpose and grace. Her attention was focused on a far corner table where a seat had been saved. Unfortunately, she had to walk by Mr. Beetlejuice, and never made it to the table.  
  
As soon as his eyes laid upon her, he ogled, salivated, growled like a wolf, and muttered, "Oooooh, Baby! Come to Papa!"  
  
Lara tried to step around him, but he intercepted her path and slurred, "Hey, Sweetheart, if I said you had a beautiful body, would you hold it against me?"  
  
She rebuffed in a stern voice, "Excuse me, sir, but could you kindly step aside and allow me to pass by."  
  
He purred, "Sweetheart, how can you pass by your Romeo, especially with luscious lips like these? How about a kiss?" He puckered up like a goldfish.  
  
Her response was a bit more forceful. "Your manners have a lot to be desired. Please leave me alone, and step out of the way."  
  
"Oh, really," he grinned. "Then you won't mind me doing this!" He grabbed her shoulders, dipped her horizontally to the floor, and was about to plant a slobbering kiss when her right fist caught him on the jaw.  
  
Stepping back, he quipped, "Ahhh! A feisty one! I like it!" and barked like a dog.  
  
Lara placed hands on her guns and threatened, "Listen, mister, I don't know what your problem is, but I have been shown better respect from villains than from you! Now, bugger off!"  
  
Then it got really crazy. Started off with him doing a bad Robert DeNiro impersonation.   
  
"You... talking to me? Are you talking... to me?" he grunted.   
  
He twirled like a whirlwind had engulfed him, and when he stopped his outfit was exactly like Lara's. Same shorts, same shirt, same boots, and same guns, except on a white body with a belly hanging over the gunbelt.  
  
"This bar is not big enough for the two of us!" he cursed. "One of us has to go! So... on the count of three, either you are out of here... or draw your guns! One..."  
  
I interrupted, "Mister! Lara! If you two are having an argument, you can't settle it that way in here! Settle it in another way, or take it outside!"  
  
As my head swung back and forth to each, he pulled out his gun and shot me in the head! Shocked, I stared at him. A fluid dripped from my forehead onto my nose. My fingertips brushed it off and I looked at my hand. It was paint, green and slimy! He had a gun that shot paint balls!  
  
Laughter erupted from him. He pranced around the bar, shot paint at the other customers, and yelled, "Look! Look! I'm Lara Croft! I'm Lara Croft!"  
  
Angered, Lara struck the barrel of her gun under his chin. She hissed, "Your actions are unwanted, and I don't like being embarrassed or made fun of! Stop it!"  
  
My hand waved to her. "Lara, you know that can't be done here! Put it away!"  
She hesitated for a couple of seconds, but controlled her temper and lowered the gun.  
  
Then he blurted out, "Yeah, Lara, put it away, or something like this may happen!"  
  
The top of his head exploded! Some type of goop splattered on the ceiling and part of the wall. Everyone watched, and either stepped away or ran out the door. The ones who stayed were frozen and wide eyed. His head spat more goop and coated a large part of the ceiling. It bubbled over the side of his head, and then foam boiled out. I thought he was melting away.   
After a few seconds his body trembled out of control. The people gazed at each other and wondered if he was going to self-destruct. Fireworks blazed out of his skull, and the remaining crowd hit the floor and watched! Screechers, screamers, and Roman candles sprang out, and, somewhere within him, a John Phillip Sousa marching tune played. After the illuminated display, and while the music created the background mood, a set of miniature flags of the nations circled around the open area of his scalp.   
  
Flabbergasted, our jaws fell open. Then, as quickly as it started, it finished. He extended out his arms, and after a "Ta-daaaaa," he bowed.  
  
Gripped with fear, everyone eyed each other and mumbled in wonder if the 'floor show' was actually finished.  
  
Lara got to her feet first. "I am not staying if this guy is going to be here!" She backtracked and exited.  
  
I called out, "Lara, no! Wait!" But she had already left.  
  
Meanwhile, he ran to the door and shouted, "Hey, Sweetheart, wait! I didn't get to show you what I can pull out of my nose!"  
  
By this time I was all over him. "Alright, Mister, you are out of here! Don't ever show your face here again! Get out!"  
  
He apologized profusely, "Bud, I'm sorry. I didn't mean it. I just lost my head. Ya gotta forgive me." His arms clung to my leg like a desperate vine.  
  
"No! You offend and embarrass my customers! You have no sense of respect for anyone! You've messed up my place, and you smell! Get off me and get out!"  
  
A lost look appeared on his face. "I thought this was a place where everyone was welcomed. You know, open door policy, no questions asked."  
  
My teeth clenched. "I don't need anyone scaring my customers away with antics like yours! If they don't behave, they are out of here, too! But to get my regulars back, especially Lara Croft, then you have got to go! Goodbye! Leave! Get out of here!"  
  
He spoke in the softest voice possible, "Hey, Bud, I can take a hint. You're a little bit upset. I'll come back when you've cooled down. Okay?"  
  
The blood rushed to my face. "No! Never! You are to never come back! You hear me? Never return! N-E-V-E-R, never! Now leave!"  
  
A pained look crossed his brow, and then he retorted, "Do you think this is the only bar in town, Bud? The only place this flamboyant guy can go to? There're hundreds of these places. Yeah, hundreds. I may go to any one of those bars and grace them with my presence. Yeah... In fact, I may even open a bar of my own and make it a hundred times better than this place. What do you say to that, huh? Better and classier, you know... I'll even have fun games to play, like Trivial Pursuit's Body Fluids and Excretions Edition... or... or Twister for the quadriplegic and the multi-limbed. Yeah, that's what I'll do! It'll be different! With standard games like pin the tail on the slug, or bobbing for alligators... Fun games like that! You'll see! It'll be great! You'll see!"  
  
With that last word, he left.  
  
***  
  
The gentleman in the tuxedo asked, "So you never saw him again?"  
  
The bartender shook his head. "That last time was enough."  
  
"Do you know if he did open another bar?" a fellow in a coonskin cap asked.  
  
"God, I hope not. Don't want to be the doorman at that place and see the group entering, if he did."  
  
Two men in coveralls knifed their way to the bar counter. The taller of the two spoke, "Excuse me, bartender. We overheard your encounter with Beetlejuice. Do you know where he went?"  
  
The bartender paused. "Sorry, gentlemen, I don't know. And even if I did that information can't be given to you in this place. Why do you want to know?"  
  
A dark hair female with a crown questioned, "Yeah, who are you guys?"  
  
The shorter one answered, "We're the Ghostbusters, ma'am." He handed out some cards. "We were hired by a British couple to make sure that pesky poltergeist was completely out of the way."  
  
The woman read, "'Paranormal Exterminators. No task too big, no problem too small. Available 24 hours, 7 days a week. Call 800-NO-GHOST'.'"  
  
A man broke away from the crowd and raced for the exit.  
  
"Who was that?" the bartender asked.  
  
The crowned female in the star-spangled outfit replied, "I don't know, but he smelled like an old tire... and I think he pinched my butt."  
  
The bartender raised his arm towards the door and looked at the two in coveralls. "Fellas, there goes your man."  
  
Both men gathered their gear and jumped to the exit door.  
  
"Correct me if I am wrong," said the raven-haired beauty. "But if those Ghostbusters were able to confront Beetlejuice within this bar, wouldn't their weapons be rendered ineffective to use against him?"  
  
The bartender came close to her face and winked, "You're absolutely right. But I'm not going to tell the kook that information. Are you?"  
  
END  
  
  
May 11, 2000  
  
Hope you enjoyed reading the story. It was just as fun writing it.  
Gerry Ramos  
SilverRope@aol.com   
  
  
  



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